We get to read Woolf's scathing scrawl about the Ulysses being "a memorable catastrophe—immense in daring, terrific in disaster", along with her profound admiration towards Charlotte Brontë, who "has you by the hand and forces you along her road, seeing the things she sees and as she sees them." (Jahanara Tariq)
In
The Bookseller, writer Dallas Athent reflects on ill narrators (or, rather, the lack of them).
I tried to remember how many novels I've read (not just recently, but in the past 30 years), where the narrator had a health issue that moulded their perspective, without said illness dictating the overall theme or plot of the story. It wasn’t just that I couldn’t think of many, I couldn’t think of a single one. I examined my bookshelf. There was The Idiot by Elif Batuman, Kudos by Rachel Cusk, and Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams. In terms of classics, I had The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton, Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë and Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradubury (sic). I’m not saying these books should be anything but what they are. They’re all some of my favorites! I’m simply illustrating how shocked I was, that in my entire bookshelf, I hadn’t read a novel with a background that was similar to my own.
Urban Matter describes the latest on-screen adaptation of Daphne Du Maurier's
Rebecca as '
Jane Eyre without being
Jane Eyre'.
La opinión de Murcia (Spain) begins an article on the use of pseudonyms by women writers by quoting from Robert Southey's letter to Charlotte Brontë.
Book Riot has a lovely selection of 'literary greeting cards for almost any occasion' and some of them are Brontë-related.
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